Almost a year ago, I hit publish on the first part of The Bathhouse series. At the time, I was just trying to process an experience I had in a bathhouse that I thought might make for a good erotic tale. I didn’t think it was a series. I didn’t think I was an “erotica writer.” But that experience needed to be surgically extracted from my mind in a way only writing could do. Which is why, when I read that first part now, the blow-by-blow structure of it makes complete sense. I was really reliving every moment of that encounter. A year later, The Bathhouse is in a much different place. I’m not reliving something through story, the characters are making it. There’s a plot. It’s an honest-to-goodness story and it reads so differently from that very first part, I’ve considered making it a standalone piece.

But that first exorcism-by-writing I began nearly a year ago started something else, too. I decided I would give this erotica writing thing a shot. I’d commit and see what happened. So I wrote and published to a nonexistent audience, with the goal of releasing something once a week. Naturally, life got in the way, as it does, but I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished in the last year. I have published eight audio episodes and thirty-six stories, including three series, ranging from humor to satire to gritty noir to high fantasy. I have 188 subscribers and two thousand people have viewed my work in the last thirty days. Honestly, I cannot believe it.

And there are so many more stories to tell. But the main one I want to make space for today is one of gratitude. Gratitude for you.

If you’re reading this, thank you.

Thank you for being interested in my words, even if only moderately so. Thank you for your patience as I figure out the shape of this thing called Maia Woodhouse. Thank you for your comments and engagement. Thank you for doing me the honor of trusting me with your desires.

Thank you for this year.

Here’s to another three-hundred and sixty-five days of discovery together 🥂

What’s been your favorite story from the last year? What are you looking forward to getting more of?

💛 Maia

"How would you like to star in the next Maia Woodhouse story?" I almost asked you. Almost dropped my hand over the cedar plank to touch your belly.

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Transcript

Hey.

I'm doing something different, which is instead of writing something out and starting there and then narrating it, I haven't written anything. I am in the parking lot, Trader Joe's with Inga and Partner’s inside getting hot chocolate fixings because obviously it is hot chocolate season. And, yeah, it's just been one of those days. A lot of go go go go. And, this morning I sat down to write and I wrote and I crossed things out. And I wrote and I crossed things out. And then at the end, it was just a bunch of crossed out nonsense. So here we are. I suppose that I may end up not sharing this at all. I don't know if anyone's going to like this. It's definitely not the type of content that you signed up for. So I'm sorry if this is totally not what you want, but I have heard from some people that you like more of the off-the-cuff stuff. So here it is, off the cuff. and just because it is Maia Woodhouse, you should know that I do have another Sunday Confession and, it has to do with a walk that Inga and I took yesterday.

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I don’t know if y’all like the more informal posts I put out on Sundays. I mostly have to gauge interest by number of likes (not the best metric), but we work with what we’ve got. Not that I should necessarily put out content similar to previously well-liked posts. By that logic, I would only write about the Wall of Dicks for the rest of my life. Of course, part of the reason people liked the Wall of Dicks so much is probably because it was something new. And it was lighthearted and fun. I have a pet hypothesis that people are more willing to share and engage in humorous erotica, because there’s an element of plausible deniability - “I was here for the laughs, not the dicks!” Not that the Wall of Dicks post was terribly erotic in the traditional sense. In any case, I’m sorry to say the story you are reading is about neither walls nor dicks.

It’s a story about the real me.

A confession.

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I had been to a couple of “house parties” before. Typically, they were humid, packed with sweaty pulsing bodies, dark, and your shoes stuck to the floor more than they should. I would inevitably be pressured into playing Flip Cup and would have a terrible time trying to flip that fucking cup while being ridiculed by my team.

But I knew this party would be different. It was an adult party. With real adults. Not the proto-adults who would magically appear skin-crawlingly close behind you while you were dancing at the 18+ club, their hips gyrating clumsily and their hands hovering around your waist, not quite touching, forcing you to scooch away as politely as possible. And it was an adult party. With sex. Not just a quick fondle on a dance floor, but actual sex happening right there, for all to see. That evening, for the first time in the two-and-a-half weeks since my breakup, I forgot about my ex. I didn’t feel like the shattered shell of a person attempting to cobble herself together. I was excited.

It was a Halloween party, but after a fruitless trip to the thrift store earlier that day, we decided to forego costumes. I wore my leather miniskirt, knee-high boots, and a t-shirt I got from a web development conference, which I had cut into an off-the-shoulder job - smart and sexy, I thought. After putting the final touches on our makeup (or the final spritzes of cologne, in Samuel’s case), the three of us gamboled down the stairs like colts out to pasture.

LeAnn, Samuel’s mother, poked her head from around the open door of the refrigerator.

“Where are y’all off to?” she asked.

To have sex, I thought, feeling my face flush. I could tell by the energy zipping between the three of us that they were thinking the same.

“Just gonna grab a drink,” Samuel replied smoothly. “We’ll be back late.”

“Oh, we have drinks here,” she said, gesturing around the kitchen.

“We were thinking it would be good to get out of the house,” Samuel answered, darting a glance in my direction. I chipped in by arranging my face into a more downtrodden expression.

“Oh, of course,” she cooed, nodding sympathetically at me. “That sounds fun! Have a good time. Drive safe.”

“Will do. Thanks, Mom.”

Feeling deliciously naughty and terribly eager, I was practically skipping to the car. I imagined this was how it felt to be a teenager sneaking out of the house for a late-night tryst.

“How are you feeling?” Blake inquired, her gaze serious.

“Honestly, good. Really good. Excited. Nervous.”

“If anything is too much, just say so, and we can go.”

“We should have a safe word,” I said. “Banana! No, that might come up.”

The three of us burst into laughter at the shamelessly naked truth of that statement. God, it felt good to laugh. It seemed as though the last time I had laughed was very long ago indeed.

“Cum up,” Blake riffed, shaking her head as her laughter subsided.

“How about ‘penguin squid’?” Samuel suggested, a combination of their favorite animals.

“Yes, perfect!” Blake answered.

“Sounds good, I’ll just start talking about the mutant penguin squids and no one will want to have sex with me anyway, so leaving will be easy.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure that’s the turn-off you think it is,” Blake joked.

The drive was far shorter than I had imagined it would be - twenty minutes at most - and the house far plainer. I had been imagining a Hugh Hefner-esque mansion, but this was your typical American ranch house, nestled among the trees of a quiet cul-de-sac. Light sprang into the night through the gaps between drawn curtains, along with muffled music and the chatter of party-goers. No one would suspect that in this unremarkable home, costumed strangers were performing various sex acts with each other.

And before that day, I would never have suspected that I’d be one of them.

Thanks for reading/listening!

As always, it makes me so happy when I hear from you, so please don’t be shy.

Love ya.

💛 Maia

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“What are you guys doing?” Georgia demanded in a half-hearted way, words slurring. I was aware that she was on the other bed, along with several others, but it was difficult to estimate what any of them could see - or how much they really cared. I didn’t bother looking. In my tipsy state, I almost wanted to be caught, but some shred of decorum obliged me to at least continue my adulations undercover, in this case literally.

Our heads beneath the hotel sheets, I continued nuzzling into Blake’s delicious auburn hair. Her curls were soft and as sweet-smelling as a garden in full bloom. I couldn’t help but smile as I inhaled her springtime. I kissed her neck lightly, drunk on more than just the “Party Juice” that had been mixed earlier that night in the bathtub of Ryan Feely’s hotel room. Between the novel delirium of alcohol and the gently intoxicating intimacies shared with the young woman beside me, I couldn’t say which was a headier elixir. My lips found an earlobe and nipped. I wanted to kiss her all over. Or maybe just her neck. I could wander that delightful terrain forever, kneeling to inhale the delicately beckoning flowers at every step in infinitely patient staccato. Everything was exquisitely soft: her skin, her ears, her lidded eyes, the sheets covering our bodies, the light filtering into our cocoon of newly discovered wonders.

Georgia’s words, however, had made Blake tense. She tolerated my affections for a few more moments, then pulled away gently. I froze, fearing I had crossed some unspoken line, the punishment for which would be, of course, utter revocation of all privileges with her.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she murmured.

I nodded, relieved. We wriggled out from underneath the blankets, feigning normalcy as much as possible, and slipped out of the room, going unnoticed for the most part. Georgia raised an eyebrow at us, but I doubted she would remember her skepticism in the morning.

We took the stairs down, exiting through the hotel’s side entrance. As soon as we pushed open the door, the whoosh of the ocean waves filled our ears. I felt giddy, swimmingly alive. The warm night was rich and exotic with possibility, in the way only the last night in an unfamiliar city can be.

“What should we do?” I asked, hoping I sounded more casual than coy. There were certainly at least a few things I wanted to do with her. Or to her. But this tenuous unfurling between us was made fragile by its newness, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. I wanted badly to cup it and caress its beautiful trembling wings, but I dared not for fear my eagerness would drive it away. So I waited, hoping its first clumsy fluttering dance from its shell would lead it to my cupped palms.

“Maybe this is just me, but I’m actually so hungry,” Blake said, her large green eyes smiling guilelessly up at me. I consulted my stomach briefly and found that it was not, in fact, just her.

“Oh my god, yes. Maybe there’s a pizza place that’s still open.”

“YES,” Blake agreed emphatically. “Pizza. Genius.”

We looked around stupidly, waiting for one to materialize nearby.

“Or we could walk on the beach and see what’s open?” I revised.

“Also good,” Blake nodded gamely, moving her shoulders and hips to an inaudible song. I grinned at this and joined her.

“I love this song!” I declared. For another minute, we danced to the tuneless sound of ocean waves and late-night traffic, then burst out laughing.

“Yeah, that’s a good one,” Blake agreed.

“Avici, I think?”

“Totally. Avici. One of his lesser-known songs, but still a banger.” We turned to the black horizon and started walking.

“Maybe that bar where we did karaoke is open.” Having been there as a class earlier that day, it was one of the few landmarks we knew.

“I bet it is! And I bet they have, you know, bar food or whatever,” I replied. “Like tater tots.”

“TATER TOTS. Oh my god, Maia, yes. Fucking tater tots is what we need.”

“Loaded tater tots,” I continued. Blake bit her lip and rolled her eyes in the back of her head as she moaned.

“Fuckk. I just came in my pants.”

I laughed, loving this night. Loving her. Saturated with uncontainable love. I slipped off my sandals as our feet sank deeper in the sand and Blake followed suit. The air was salty and fresh and cleansing. I took a deep breath, drinking the night.

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“We’ve never had a unicorn before,” she told me in a conspiratorial tone, as I cut into my steak. Her blue eyes were glowing with excitement, but Michel’s brown ones flashed a warning in her direction.

“We don’t need to label it,” he said, a light reprimand in his voice. Morgan nodded and dropped her gaze. I flushed furiously, flattered to have acquired such a prestigious place in their relationship, but self-conscious of the level of attention such a position entailed. I wished I was at least a little tipsy. When the waitress returned with a water pitcher to top up our glasses, I resisted the urge to order some wine.

I wondered how the three of us must look to her. Would she think us a family? The dashing middle-aged father and his two twenty-something daughters who looked nothing alike? I doubted it, the unspoken naughtiness giving me a thrill. Later that night, the three of us would be fucking each other. We each knew it, our thoughts bent on that moment like the centrifugal force of a racecar speeding through a turn. Morgan raised her glass of water in a toasting gesture, and Michel and I followed suit.

“Happy birthday!” she declared, looking lovingly at Michel. He smiled and squeezed her hand.

“Happy birthday!” I echoed, nodding and smiling. His eyes held mine. Or perhaps it was the other way around. His were dancing, scintillating, ravenous, and I wondered how much my expression mirrored his. For Michel’s forty-seventh birthday he was receiving a gift that was every little girl’s dream: a unicorn. However, in the sex world, this didn’t mean a majestic white horse with a rainbow mane who shat glitter. In the sex world, this meant a single woman, willing to play. Me.

“So,” Michel said. The three of us were standing in the kitchen, having just returned from some post-dinner dancing at a local nightclub. “You like the kinky stuff.” It wasn’t a question. We had been sexting for weeks and I had made it clear that I would very much like to be tied up and fucked by him. I’d been fantasizing about just that ever since we met at a swinger’s party last October, where I had overheard Morgan ask, “Is this okay, daddy?” to which Michel had replied, “yeah, baby, suck that nice man’s dick.” While Morgan had been busy with the nice man’s dick, Michel had run his hands up my naked sides, kissing my neck, my breasts, my mouth. I had been craving more ever since.

“Like, girl on top?” I asked, playing dumb. “Yeah, definitely.”

Michel smiled. He rarely showed his teeth when he smiled, but when he did it was downright charming. The smile he gave now was slow and sultry, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a soft knowing way.

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” he said.

“No? Doggy style’s good too,” I said, sticking with the bit. His eyes were sparking with something that I recognized. A kind of repressed conflagration that could only be controlled with deliberate slowness. His body was rigid. Morgan leaned shyly against the opposite wall, watching us.

“You like restraints,” he murmured, unfazed by my banter, running his eyes over my body, as if imagining where he would fasten them.

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